


No Good Deed

by Laguera25



Series: The Mirror Room [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:04:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2267349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laguera25/pseuds/Laguera25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pike always warned Jim that his actions would have consequences, but he wasn't prepared for what happened when he went against his better judgment and capitulated to the demands of a newly-encountered alien species.  When they demanded Bones as part of a peace accord with the Federation, he reluctantly let him go, confident that he could get him back before any harm was done.  He was wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Good Deed

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU/outtake from Bones and Blighted Roses. Every now and then, I'll have an idea that doesn't fit with the story I want to tell. This is one of them. It might be continued or expanded upon, but what exists can stand on its own.

Jim Kirk's heart spasms inside his chest because the first thing Bones says when they find him in that squalid room, bruised and naked and covered in blood and substances that make Jim's gorge rise with horrified recognition is, "Rosalie, Jim. Where is my Rosalie? Is she all right?" He's too weak to even sit up and wracked with helpless shivers. His lips are cracked with dehydration, and his voice is a painful rasp, as though he's been screaming.

 _You fucking bastards,_ he thinks as McCoy's eyes roll towards him, glazed and desperate. _You motherfucking bastards. I'm going to kill every last one of you._

He hurries forward and drops to his knees beside Bones, who utters a cracked cry and presses himself into his side, head buried in his ribs. Torn, bloody fingers snarl in his tunic.

"Jim," Bones croaks in that awful, broken voice. "Jim."

"It's me, Bones. I've got you," he manages around the lump in his throat, and his trembling fingers descend to card through his hair. "I've got you."

Bones mewls at the contact. "Rosalie," he repeats. "Jim."

"Sssh. She's all right, Bones. She's on the _Enterprise_ , and she's missed you so much, and she's waiting for you."

Bones begins to sob, a thin, exhausted screech that reminds him of his father's car kissing the freeway guardrail not long before he'd sent it over the cliff as a hearty fuck you to Uncle Frank, and his skin crawls. Tears stream down Bones' face, and his fingers tighten in the fabric of his tunic. "Jim, I'm sorry. You've got to tell her I'm sorry." His breath is hot against Jim's ribs.

 _Jesus,_ Kirk thinks. _Jesus Christ._ "You're going to tell her yourself. I'm taking you home. We're going to get you out of here." 

_This is all your fault,_ the voice of Uncle Frank informs him. _You never should've let him volunteer, never should've agreed to such outrageous terms. You should've told those fuckers to kiss your ass, and never mind Starfleet's case of chapped ass or the prospect of war. Their technology is fifty years behind the Federation's. Hell, a med shuttle could've held its own against their battle cruiser, but Starfleet was spooked after the destruction of Vulcan and Khan's vengeance ride through San Francisco, so appeasement was the order of the day. So you gave in against your better judgment, and Bones paid for it._

_You never should've let him go. He had a wife six months gone with his first child. He should've been the last in line. You should've gone instead. You were the captain, after all. Besides, you were single. No one would miss you if you disappeared. And hey, you were used to taking an ass-whipping after all the time and energy I wasted trying to turn you into a man. It would've been just more of the same for you._

_But no, you were a coward and let him go in your stead, so sure you could get him back before any harm was done. Well, the joke was on you. It took you six months to track him to this shithole, and in the meantime, Rosalie gave birth alone and screaming for a husband who never came, and when Joanna McCoy was three weeks old, her mama destroyed her quarters and tore down every photo of Bones. You came on the run in your boxer shorts and socks and found her in the wreckage of her home._

He left me, _she wailed._ He wasn't there when I woke up. He promised me he'd be there when the baby came, and he wasn't. He WASN'T. He left me to do this alone! I hate him. _And then she dissolved into hysterical tears, rocking to and fro in her wheelchair._

_And what could you say to that? There was no lie in any of it. You were the one holding her hand when Joanna came into the world, and it was M'Benga who caught her when she slid from between her mama's straining thighs. So you could only stand there while Rosalie howled like a wounded animal and Joanna squalled from her bassinet._

_Rosalie calmed down eventually, but the pictures of Bones haven't gone back up, and her eyes are ringed with dark smudges. She doesn't talk anymore, and she's too damn thin. The baby's the only reason she's hanging on, and frankly, you're not sure how much longer that'll last. Bones took most of her when he left, and she's tired of fighting._

_Maybe if you'd found him sooner, they'd have a chance, but as usual, you're a day late and a dollar short. Rosalie is dead with her eyes open, and what you're bringing home to her isn't Bones._

"Wanna go home, Jim," Bones begs.

"We're going, Bones," he promises. "Just...sssh." To Spock, who has been watching this from the doorway in dispassionate silence, he says, "Mr. Spock, advise the _Enterprise_ to prep and launch a med shuttle. Have M'Benga on it." He'll be damned if he'll let the medical crew see their CMO like this, beaten and violated and covered in God knows what from God knows how many people.

 _You know what,_ corrects a remorseless voice inside his head.

"Yes, Captain," Spock says, and his com chirps into sudden life.

"Jim," Bones says.

"Yeah, Bones?"

"What about Peach?"

Jim's brow furrows. "What? I don't think a peach is a good idea right now."

Bones shakes his head. "No. No, dammit. My-my baby. Did-Was-?" He swallows. "Did Rosalie...?"

"Yeah, Bones," he says softly. "Yeah, she did. She had a beautiful little girl. Six pounds seven ounces and healthy as a horse. She looks just like you, too. Even has your scowl."

Bones laughs, broken glass in his throat, and Jim bites back a sob. "What's her name?"

"Joanna Evelyn McCoy."

Bones nods, and the chain attached to the collar at his throat rattles. "'S a good name. A name for a lady." Then he begins to cry, hard, wracking sobs that rattle his frame. "I should've been there. I promised Rosalie I'd be there. I should've been there. I left her, Jim! I left her. I should've been there."

Jim gathers Bones into his arms, careful to avoid the welter of bruises on his back and torso. "You're going to be there. You're going to be there for everything. I promise. I promise. It's going to be okay."

He doesn't know any such thing, of course. He can still see Rosalie sitting in what was left of their quarters, howling her rage to the walls, but he can't say that, not to Bones, who's clutching him like a child, naked and battered and more worried about his wife and child than the ruin these bastards have made of him. He needs treatment and love, not the knowledge of the possibility that he's lost everything that kept him sane. So he croons and strokes his hair and says to Spock, "Help me get this chain off him."

Spock crosses to the corner in three crisp strides. A long-fingered hand reaches out to curl around the heavy, iron chain and gives it a vigorous tug. The chain tears from the wall in a shower of dust and crumbling masonry and falls to the floor with a clank. 

Spock crouches over Bones and studies the collar. "I cannot remove it, Doctor," he says. "The force required would snap your neck." His voice is as matter-of-fact as ever, but there is an unexpected gentleness to it. He studies Bones' profile a moment, and then he rises. He does not, Jim notices, look at the rest of him, and Jim knows damn well what he's trying not to see.

"Hand me that blanket," Jim orders, and nods in the direction of a cot on the opposite wall.

Spock retrieves the blanket. It's filthy and crusted with sweat and blood and stains he refuses to name, and Spock holds it between his thumb and forefinger. 

"This blanket is inadequate to Dr. McCoy's needs."

"Yeah, well, it's also the only one we've got." He takes it from Spock's outstretched hand, grimacing at the noisome tackiness of it, and arranges it over Bones' legs. M'Benga will have to see it eventually, have to wash away the blood and oozing, viscous fluid and treat the swelling and tearing, but until then, he can protect Bones' ravaged dignity from prying eyes.

Bones raises his head with a Herculean effort, and the severed chain clanks. "Don't let my girls see me like this," he pleads, and then his head sags to Jim's thigh. He lies there, spent and panting.

"I won't," he assures him. _I'm going to take care of you now. Like I should've done then. I'm so sorry. I love you. I'm sorry._

"Med shuttle 17 to Captain Kirk," calls a voice over Spock's com.

"Kirk here."

"We're standing by to receive casualties."

"Acknowledged. Make sure M'Benga is the only one in the transporter room."

"Yes, sir."

He looks down at Bones, who lies bonelessly in his embrace. 

"I want my girls, Jim. I want my Rosalie."

 _I'll get you there. Just hang on._ "Energize when ready."

A moment later, they're bathed in orange light and pulled into the nothingness, and the last thing Jim hears before they rematerialize in the shuttle transporter room is the clank of a falling chain.


End file.
